Captive Audience
by NativeStar
Summary: Dean is held captive in a storage closet and attempts to make his esacpe. A bit of humor written for a drabble request. Words of prompt: Storage closet, duct tape and envelope.


**Title:** Captive Audience  
**Word Count:** 1,466  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** A little bad language. No pairings.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.  
**Summary:** Dean is held captive in a storage closet and attempts to make his esacpe. A bit of humour written for LJ community spnthursnights drabble request and lj user stars91. Words of prompt: Storage closet, duct tape and envelope.

A/N: Unbetaed, all mistakes are mine.

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Three things he had learnt in the last hour.

One, if an envelope says do not open then _do not open it_.

Two, duct tape was really quite strong. And three, that storage closets could store many things but men over six feet weren't one of them.

Especially when he wasn't the only thing in the closet. No, he had the joy of sharing it with at least a half dozen shoe boxes, and not the flimsy cardboard kind that he could easily crush and mould into something resembling comfortable. No, these were the hard-edged, thick card ones, a couple he swore were plastic although there was neither enough light nor room to turn around and be sure. And who the hell has _plastic_ shoe boxes? The corners were digging into his back like the razor sharp points of knives.

A line of clothes hung off the rack above him, trailing cotton sleeves and polyester trousers in his face. A few thick coats hung above his feet. He pushed at his feet trying to separate them but the duct tape holding his feet together was apparently of the same indestructible kind as the tape holding his arms behind his back.

_Hang on, clothes hang on hangers_.

Hangers which were sometimes made of wire and maybe, just maybe, might help him get through the duct tape. Abandoning his attempt to free his feet his attention turned upwards.

He managed to knock a coat down using his feet fairly quickly and he'd had a brief moment of elation that he'd succeeded before he realised the hanger hadn't come with it and all he had succeeded in doing was making himself very hot lying underneath a thick coat. Wasn't even enough room in here to shift it off.

Three coats later and he'd managed to get a hanger to fall down _with_ the coat. Luck however, was not on his side. It was plastic and rounded. Not a single rough edge that would stand a chance of cutting through duct tape.

He drove his feet into the wall. The only movement he could make and a pointless one at that. His feet met solid wall. Not drywall or even anything that would make a sound. No, his feet met brick and made only a dull thud. He'd be lucky if anyone heard that.

_Come on, Sam!_

He must have been in here for hours. How long does it take to realise he was missing? It should be fairly obvious what had happened, there should be a clear trail. Unless... there was really only one reason it would take Sam this long to mount a rescue but Dean's mind wasn't going to even think it, he wasn't going to let the possibility form in his mind.

_It was only a girl, a bitch of a witch who knew far too much about spell work granted, but still just a girl. She couldn't possibly take Sam out._

Right. Not thinking about it. New train of thought. Something to pass the time. The Houdini act clearly wasn't happening. Dean gave another twist of his arms. Damn witch must have used up at least three rolls of the stuff, there was absolutely no give in the tape, it encircled his wrists in a figure of eight before sealing them together tightly. He wiggled his fingers or at least tried to; he could neither see nor feel them moving. _If my hands drop off from lack of circulation then I'll – _The thought was cut short as Dean realised that both shooting and ass kicking _required_ hands. _Damnit._

He couldn't believe the damn thing had managed to confiscate all his knives. Dean shuddered as he realised the implications of this. The search must have been pretty thorough. No, _very_ thorough to get _all _of them, and the thought of her hands over his body? Right. New train of thought. Not dwelling on that one.

Maybe he could stand? If he could get his feet beneath him he could tackle the door. He couldn't kick it in, but maybe if he shouldered it. It might not be locked? There might not be anything in the way. Four tries later, Dean discovered that not only had his feet fallen asleep on him, there was also a length of duct tape wound in a long loop between his hands and feet, slightly sticky where tape had failed to meet tape and no longer than two feet. Damn.

He twisted to the side, allowing his shoulder to fall against the door. The very much solid door. So maybe the three feet of tape had just saved him from getting nothing but a sore shoulder.

_And where the hell is Sam?_

It had been hours. Hours with nothing but dowdy clothes and shoe boxes for company. Not the most riveting. He'd even take Sam lecturing about the origin of some obscure sigil that no one really cares about unless it's animating some homicidal fictional character. Well, almost. He wasn't quite that desperate yet.

He decided to explore more thoroughly the closet. Wiggling around on his bum he managed to push himself right up against the boxes. Lifting the lid off one proved to be challenging but doable and his hands closed over what appeared to be a pair of high heeled shoes. Very high heeled. And having been on the receiving end of a heel or two he knew the damage they could cause. But since he wasn't going to be trading his boots for high heels anytime, well, _ever_ and his hands were out of action for the moment he put the shoe back.

At least he knew something though. He was in a chick's closet. And who knew what _interesting_ stuff a woman kept in her closet. Even if said chick was most likely the witch that stuck him in here.

Dean decided to try turning around. It was entirely possible that the cold wall would be more comfortable than the sharp cornered boxes and if nothing else it was a change of scenery. By using a combination of crouching, shuffling and hopping, a full five minutes later and Dean was staring at the other wall. Or would have been if there was enough light.

His hands reached into the corner and closed over a soft material. It was like one of those games you played as a kid. Where you're blindfolded and have to identify things by touch alone. Admittedly Dean had had guns and had been reassembling them against the clock rather than the more traditional jelly, eggs and other stuff that's supposed to seem gross when you don't know what it is. And speaking of, why would kids freak out thinking it's brains and eyeballs when they know full well their parents aren't about to let them go sticking their hands into that? Weird.

Getting back to the topic, this however, was not gross. It was small and silky and lacy. And Dean knew exactly what part of the female anatomy this was made for. He killed a few minutes indulging in the fantasy of returning this lost item of clothing when he remembered that if he carried on with this, in his current situation there would be no err,_relief_.

_Sam! Where are you?!_ He drummed his feet against the boxes. It made more noise than the wall had, but still, if there's was no one around to hear it then it wasn't about to do him a jot of good.

_Sam! I swear if you don't show up in the next -_

The door was flung open and he squinted against the sudden bright light silhouetting a giant of a man. He hoped it was Sam and not the closet owner's boyfriend.

"Dean?"

"Mmmph?" Sam reached down and made short work of the gag. "What took you so long, Sam?"

"You're welcome."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, Dean. Shouldn't that be my question?"

"I'm always fine."

And as the last of the tape was cut through, Dean stood to prove his fineness. And promptly fell back to the floor like a new born calf trying to find its legs. _Damn dead legs._

"Dean?" Sam asked behind a snigger.

"Storage closets aren't made for six foot something men, Sammy." Dean said, as if he had demonstrated an important lesson to Sam, and not made a fool of himself.

"Noted." Sam nodded and offered a hand, grinning. "So, a _girl_ got the drop on you?"

"Shaddup."

Dean learnt another three things in the last minute of his captivity.

One, a new found respect for women who waxed their legs.

Two, little brothers, when confronted with envelopes that say 'do not open' actually _don't_ open them.

And three, he was never going to hear the end of this one.

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Reviews are adored and I'd really love to hear what you think of this. My first time attempting something humourous, I'm not sure if it's completely flopped. Thanks for reading:) 


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